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Nervous breath fogs up the balcony door. The mind impedes the day from starting. The yellow light, almost invasive, like a curious child slightly parting the curtain to catch a peak at the actor. Possibly best never to close the balcony door, so you'd never feel that life will intrude; that you are attuned to the outside. What's the overture for? Maybe what's in store out there is better than the inside, cold floor, adjacent to the locked balcony door.